Jammu's ace lensman Ashok Sodhi's love for stills will live on even after his death. The hands that spared Rs 50,000 for a branded camera, now part of an urn, will soon be dipped in Tawi or Chenab waters. That camera will surely make its way to Jammu from Delhi today or tomorrow but Sodhi does not live to hit click with his fingers. Sodhi, according to his friends, would itch to capture and capture `good' and it was this restlessness that he sped a good distance of 50 kilometres in few minutes before he went on to become a pen martyr. ``It took him 30 minutes to be on the spot and only three to leave it ... forever,'' his close friend Zorawar Singh laments. ``All good things come to an end but this is tragic indeed,'' rues Manu Srivatsava, his longtime companion. I remember having met Sodhi twice, first when I was a cub desk writer with `The Indian Express' nine years...

Winter in Kashmir is music. It lives in the notes of Santoor, in the long icicles creaking down from the sun-beaten roof of the desolate Gulmarg church. On the whoosh of a fast running stream melting down from northern glaciers or the rustle of the crisp brown autumn Chinar leaves. The valley winter is a recipe. Its aroma wafts from the secret kitchens dishing hareesa (a meat dish grounded with rice) and huksun (dried vegetables prepared in oil). Or the vapour rising from the hot cup of saffron kehwa towards khatambandh (ornately-carved wooden ceiling). It picks the tiny red nose-tip of a three-year old, his or her face beaten by the icy chill from the lake water freeze. It glows on the snow-sun-tanned white face of a Taiwanese girl descending on the skis from the steep slopes of khilanmarg. Winter beneath this side of Pir Panjal is a culture. It is the wrinkled-faced woman of a distant...

Ismatullah Jami hates tears, emotions and Kashmir's extensive hospitality. He calls them Satan's inventions. Today, as he clung hesitantly onto the state's unkempt green and white bus, his face is deadpan and voice shallow. His younger brother Afaq runs his fingers to adjust the streak of grey hair that block his eye-line but avoids contact. Seat fastened, Jami hides his face in a spotless white handkerchief to escape embarrassment. Tears have defeated his steely resolve even as he tries vainly to make amends. His left hand clutching firmly the walking stick, he uses the right to roll the soaked white cloth back into the pocket of his nicely creased navy blue shirt, tucked carefully inside the grey pant. Jami loves to dress up and look dignified and won't mind spending hours in the washroom, ensuring every lock of hair sits on the right place or the 'phoren' deodorant is applied properly. He visits fashionable places and is fond of cars as they...

Not many sightseers know they are being cheated on Kashmir. They hear more about it but end up seeing little. Very little. Trust me, the Valley is not a postcard of the gurgling Lidder river, the rustling streams melting from the Thajiwas glacier, the snow peaks that rise seemingly to touch blue skyline or the lush green meadows linked through mountains. Kashmir is not Pahalgam, Gulmarg or Sonamarg, Kokernag. Neither the series of the Mughal gardens that lord the emerald Dal lake. It is more. It is an undiscovered wonderland, offering itself to be explored. Gradually as the plant of Indo-Pak thaw will grow into a tree of peace and trust, Kashmir would start revealing itself to the world. More enchanting places, never seen, never heard of before. To a true holiday-maker, Kashmir would unravel its dreamlands, hitherto blurred by the Line of Control. He would surely get used to the shrill chirps of the colourful birds that till recently would get lost in...